Normal
by nicodemusfleur
Summary: "Harry would be nineteen today. Would be. Or was. It was her naivete of the difference that caused this horrible weight in her stomach." A post-DH fic from a unique point of view.
1. Part 1

**A/N:** All you really need to know is that this story takes place post-DH (minus the epilogue), and is written in Petunia's POV. Enjoy!

* * *

May second was a day quite like any other she'd experienced at the cottage.

May third however, was progress. Things would get back to normal now that they were allowed to go home.

No more unnaturalness; no more strange people wearing strange clothing speaking strange words.

They had been forced to stay in a wretched "safe-house" for nine long months with no contact to the outside world, and no one to lean on except each other. Then, out of the blue one tepid May evening, they had been released. Vernon had spent much of the ride home reprimanding their escort for "abandoning us in that rat's excuse of a home", and yelling loudly due to the fact that the robed man kept trying to drive on the wrong side of the road. She quite agreed. Living in some miniscule little cottage in the middle of bloody nowhere with only her fear and an ancient television set for entertainment left one readily eager to bash in the head of whoever put them there. No matter what good intentions, it was just plain rude to dump them there with no communication for almost a year.

On the morning of May fourth, she was startled to wake up to the sound of the garbage truck outside their window. Vernon snored through it. She could faintly hear Dudley as well.

She would adjust. Eventually.

* * *

And so life continued. She found it surprising how difficult it was to go on pretending that their whole lives hadn't just been turned upside down for nine months - or really, for seventeen years. She couldn't seem to concentrate on the important things anymore.

All of Vernon's ties looked the same nowadays.

She tried to adjust - everyday waking up to the normal sounds of Privet Drive, picking out Vernon's work clothes, making breakfast for the three of them, making sure to tape Dudley's favorite television program (which came on before he was awake), trimming the hedges, watering the flowers, tidying up the bedrooms, making Dudley lunch, wiping down the kitchen, vacuuming the downstairs, starting on dinner, welcoming Vernon home with his usual drink and kiss, doing the day's dishes, planning the next day's meals, going to bed. Repeat.

The problem was her mind wouldn't shut up.

The problem was, as physically preoccupying as her daily tasks were, they did not maintain her mind's attention. So her mind wandered.

This never used to happen. Not before.

Rationally she knew that having been through the terrible ordeal that was those nine months would take awhile to get over, but still - Vernon and Dudley had been through the same nine months, and they were behaving normally. In the five months since they had been home, they had both jumped back into previous routine with the flip of a switch. Though Vernon was now the manager at a local bank, and Dudley was finishing up college with a private tutor, they were both back to how they were before.

So what was the difference? They had been able to act like those nine months had never happened; like Harry had never even been in their lives in the first place.

She knew that he had though. Today she had planned on facing that fact, but had found herself irrationally afraid and unable to reach across the tiny hallway for the handle.

_Stop being so silly_, she thought to herself.

It wasn't as if there was a ghost waiting to pop out and scare her.

With a deep inhale of breath and a shaky arm, she unlatched the door to the cupboard under the stairway.

The thin door creaked with age and disuse, the hinge slightly rusted and slow.

Exhale.

It was surprisingly dark, and unsurprisingly stale. Stepping closer, she nervously (_Stop it, Petunia_) reached inside toward the hanging string and sharply tugged until the dank cupboard was lit by a flickering bulb.

Inhale.

It smelled of sawdust and dirty socks.

The tilting cot took up almost the entire space - the rest occupied by stray bits of paper with childish drawings of dragons, a mildew ridden box containing some shapeless gray clothing, and a yellowing tea cup filled with a few crayon fragments and a roll of clear tape.

The walls were grimy, inlayed with dust and spiderwebs; their filth enhanced by the dimly shadowed lighting.

She sat stiffly upon the weak cot, the faded blue blanket scratching unpleasantly on the backs of her thighs. Slowly she turned parallel to the door and rested her head on the lumpy excuse for a pillow, the cot screeching in effort beneath her. Eyes trained on the ceiling and stairs, she reached blindly to her right and pulled the flimsy door closed. She tugged on the string above her once more and let her arm fall to her side.

Her knees were aching, bent awkwardly between her body and the wall.

It was pitch black and the air was too thick.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Her skin was itching; the mixture of the dust and the knowledge of the presence of spiders sending steady twitches of discomfort along her body. She could hear the pipes easily through the wall, loudly pushing water to and from the laundry room.

Inhale. Her breathe was shaking with effort.

Exhale with a faint whimper accompanied by a flood of tears to her eyes.

"Oh," she choked out.

Her throat tightened, face crumpled, and shoulders tensed. Her tears were steadily flowing, creating trails of wetness on her temple and through her scalp, some landing noiselessly on the matted pillow beneath her head. The silence went uninterrupted save her uneven gasps of breath and the steady groan of the pipes beside her head.

"Oh, I'm s-so sor-ry..." she pleaded nonsensically, her hands now covering her face, her body slowly rocking from side to side.

"Pl-please, please forgive me...oh, Lily...I'm so sorry..."

They ordered takeout that night.

* * *

She felt horribly guilty.

Everyday she woke up with a rock in her stomach; aching and unrelenting.

In the year since she'd emptied Harry's old cupboard she'd come to terms with many distasteful stains in her history with her only sister's son. It was an unpleasant and ongoing task. She felt sorry, certainly - but no longer guilty about the neglectful role she'd played in his childhood. There's no need to laden yourself with guilt over something that you can't fix.

At least that's what she told herself every morning when she awoke.

Today it was worse.

It was July thirty-first. Harry would be nineteen today. _Would_ be. Or _was_.

It was her naivete of the difference that caused this horrible weight in her stomach.

That day, hidden underneath the stairs, the realization that she hadn't thought to ask the wizard who'd escorted them home whether Harry was actually _alive_ or not caused her choked gasps to turn into uncontrollable sobs. She'd felt unbelievably stupid and selfish.

She still did.

* * *

It was bitterly cold.

The snow was thin this year, but the air was stark and dry - easily seeping past her many protective layers.

They had decided to spend Christmas in London this year in order to christen the posh two bedroom apartment they'd bought Dudley a few months before. The boys had decided to spend the day bonding over beers and football at a local pub, and she was frantically making her way through the throngs of people occupying the busy London street. Why she'd made the decision to do her Christmas shopping only three days before said holiday, she'd never know.

Spotting a music shop across the street (and feeling abundantly impatient), Petunia sharply turned and sprinted across the road, narrowly sliding in front of an oncoming car. She made it to the other side safely, if a bit out of breathe, her eyes sliding to the building next to the music shop.

Her brow furrowed and her breathe caught.

But no, it was just a bookstore.

No...but...maybe. Because for a second, there had been a building in between those two.

If she hadn't led the life she had, she would have easily dismissed it as lightheadedness. But she knew that there were things in this world that normal people couldn't see. But she _had_ seen it.

For one second it had been as real as the street itself. Though much less modern, and much less clean, than the street itself.

She had somehow made her way through the bustling crown to the other side of the sidewalk, her hand now pressed against the crease that separated the two stores.

_He could be in there_, she thought.

And it really wasn't such a stretch that he might. She'd recently decided that it was silly to think that Harry was dead, for their magical escort surely would have mentioned such a thing. So, he could be in there. From the vague rememberings if her childhood, she knew that there was a magical neighborhood in downtown London that was quite popular.

It was unbearably strange that at one point her sister had probably stood here, as well as Harry. It was also unbearably strange that there was a building in the crack that her hand was covering.

What if the people inside of the invisible building could see her?

Spinning away quickly, her cheeks already reddening with embarrassment, darkened further at a few curious stares from passers by. Really, she couldn't blame them. She would certainly have scowled if she saw someone touching a building and staring at it like it was the holy grail.

Picking up her abandoned shopping bags, she briskly strode away, deciding that Dudley could live without a new walkman this year.

Allowing herself one quick look back to where she knew the magical building to be, she sent one useless and unheard thought towards it before hurrying around the corner.

_Happy Christmas, Harry._

_

* * *

_

Goosebumps appeared long the back of her neck as the small fan blew chilled air against her sweat laden skin.

It was only eleven o'clock in the morning, but the heat had already become too unbearable for her to continue her usual routine. She had only lasted five minutes under the stifling sun before she'd decided to skip her chores in favor of a cold drink and air conditioning. Sipping greedily at her lemonade, she cursed the weather for delivering such a strong heat wave so late in the year. As far as she could remember, September had always been a relatively mild month weather wise.

This year, however, the Powers That Be had decided that they wanted her plants to bake.

Her eyes had slowly slid closed and she pressed the cold glass against her neck, sighing in relief.

She had planned a pot roast for tonight, but at the moment ice cream was sounding like a much better option.

Her eyes flickered open, preparing to scour the refrigerator for something cold to make for dinner, and instead landing on a tawny colored owl perched on the open window sill.

Jumping in surprised, her lemonade glass became more empty that full, and soaked her blouse through with the ice cold liquid. Yelping in indignation, she quickly ripped some paper towels off the rack and proceeded to try and save her shirt from ruin. Despite being livid about being covered in sweat _and_ lemonade, her body was rather glad about the splash of cool liquid - no matter.

Coming back to her senses, she turned towards the unusual sight before her.

Paper towels still pressed against her chest, she cautiously inched toward the creature. As if it knew her intentions, the owl helpfully balanced on one leg, reaching the other leg towards her. She untied the letter from it's scaly lim as quickly as possible and proceeded towards the kitchen table. Pulling out a chair, she laid her damp paper towels on the spotless table next to the mysterious envelope. It was addressed to her in neat, yet uneven writing - seemingly with real ink rather than a ballpoint pen.

It was quite obviously from a wizard, and she felt foolish for just now realizing that it could only be from Harry.

Seeing as she didn't know anyone else that uses an owl for communication, it must be from him. Though the handwriting did look a little girlish. She traced the letters with her index finger, noting that the envelope itself was also obviously not of modern design.

**_Petunia Dursley_**

**_Number 4, Privet Drive_**

**_Little Whinging, Surrey, England_**

Breathing deeply, she stopped herself from wondering what in the world this could possibly be about. With that thought, she quickly turned the envelope over and slid one manicured finger under the flap. She pulled out the contents, a single rectangular paper of similar material as the envelope. She stared at the words on the card, her mind racing too quickly to do anything but drop her mouth open in shock. She finally had proof that Harry was still alive, though not the kind of proof she was expecting.

_You are cordially invited to_

_the wedding of_

_Ginevra M. Weasley_

_and_

_Harry J. Potter_

_on Saturday, the fourteenth of April_

_two thousand and one, at four o'clock in the evening_

_at The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, England_

_Please send your RSVP via owl to_

_Molly Weasley_

_The Burrow_

_Ottery St. Catchpole, England_

So, Harry was alive.

She hadn't moved a centimeter since opening the letter, and only did so when she realized that the owl was preparing to leave.

"Wait!" she shouted, her voice echoing clearly off the tiled walls.

The owl flinched at her loud command, but obeyed and turned back in towards the kitchen, and proceeded to stare expectantly at her.

She had stopped the owl before she'd had time to think about her reasoning behind doing so, but reading over the invitation once again her knee-jerk reaction made clearer sense. If she wanted to respond, this was her only chance seeing as owls weren't readily available at the local post office.

Now that the owl was stationary, however, she had time to think. Did she want to respond?

This was the proof she had been longing for - the proof that, yes, Harry had survived. She could now live the rest of her life guilt and magic free.

But she was so _curious_.

She couldn't help it. She had always been quite nosey, never passing up an opportunity to hear the latest gossip or snoop around other people's business. When she was little this was even more prevalent, and in response to her over bearing antics her father had told her "Curiosity killed the cat".

She had responded, "Then it's a good thing I'm not a cat."

He hadn't liked that.

And yet her curiosity about other people's lives had never waned.

Though now she did find it interesting, and a bit ironic, that she had never been interested in poking her nose into Harry's life - though his was undoubtably more interesting that those of the housewives of Privet Drive.

And now she had the opportunity - if not to snoop, then to just learn. Or at least see. See what his life is like; who this 'Ginevra' (S_illy name, _she thought) was; who his friends were; where he worked; what he was like... So many questions, and the answers could be had in just a few months time. Well, there was no use dilly-dallying. She knew that eventually she would talk herself into attending for one reason or another, so she might as well get the bird out of her kitchen as soon as possible.

She sat up rather suddenly, and with a quick glance at the motionless owl, swept into the study to retrieve her stationary for special occasions. She may not have a fancy ink quill, but her paper was a step up from that old parchment like paper the invitation had arrived on.

She took special cared to keep her handwriting as neat as possible (these things _are_ important), and started on her reply.

_Molly,_

_I am replying to say that I will be_

_attending Harry's wedding, with_

_no plus-one._

_- Petunia Dursley_

_P.S. What is 'The Burrow' and how do I_

_get there by normal means?_

Short, but succinct. Now all she had to do was wait for a reply.

And figure out a way to get to this 'Ottery St. Catchpole' without Vernon finding out.


	2. Part 2

A/N: First off, I just wanted to thank everyone who responded to my previous post - I was happily surprised at the response I got, so thank you SO much. Second, at this point I have no idea how long this story is going to be. As I said in my last post, this was originally going to be a one shot, but the word limit on LJ made me decide to expand it. In this chapter I had planned to get WAY farther into the story than I did, but once I started writing it went in a totally different direction than I thought. To wrap up the much too long A/N, this may go on for awhile.

Now, on to Part 2!

* * *

There was an owl perched on the side-mirror of her car.

Of all the strange days that Petunia had endured throughout her life, this one was quickly shaping up to make the top of the list.

It had been surprisingly simple to convince Vernon that she wanted a few days of solitude - alone. After an extra night-cap and a homemade lemon tart, Vernon happily booked her two-nights stay at a quaint hotel in Bath. She only felt slightly guilty.

She had no problem lying about her whereabouts - no, that wasn't it at all. She did feel a bit bad that she hadn't enjoyed her "vacation" in Bath, but she couldn't help but feel comforted that Vernon would not be accompanying her. The hotel had been absolutely gorgeous, and centrally located, but wild horses had been rampaging through her nervous system with a steady rhythm ever since she had received the invitation to Harry's wedding, and only seemed to increase in size and volume last night.

His _wedding_.

She supposed that by now the shock probably should have worn off, but she'd been completely unsuccessful in that respect. And really, it was quite shocking. When she first received the letter, her surprise had been born from the simple fact that she'd never know anything about Harry's social life after he'd left for school, so even finding out that he was dating someone would have been surprise enough. She had since come to the conclusion that even if she had known _everything_, she still would have been surprised. Because he's still quite young. He's only twenty for heaven's sake.

It seemed frivolous and ill advised to marry at such a young age, especially considering the divorce rate these days.

Though she had gotten married at the same age as Harry, she had done so more out of necessity than anything else. After-all, having a child out of wedlock would have been unbearably embarrassing.

_Oh_, she thought.

This whole affair would make loads more sense if the girl was pregnant.

Not that she thought that the only way anyone would marry Harry would be due to a child. That would be a more characteristic opinion of her old self.

Only she did still think that.

Becoming a better person was starting to be more work than it was worth.

All she had gotten out of "improving" herself was constant guilt, and as of now owl droppings smack dab in the center of her windshield.

_Wonderful_.

Three sharp-knuckled raps startled her out of her reverie. Turning her head to look out her side window, she was met by the sight of a very pregnant woman's gown clad torso.

_I__ knew it_, she thought as she turned off the ignition and exited her car. With her back to this 'Ginerva', she turned locked her door, all the while adjusting her wide-brim hat and attempting to stop her heels from sinking in the fertile soil.

"'Ello, you must be 'Arry's aunt. Petunia, oui?" Ginevra said, extending one dainty, pale hand, and resting the other upon her bulging abdomen.

Petunia froze in awe. This woman was far too beautiful to be normal; her long platinum hair hanging loosely down her back, the glow of pregnancy seemingly making her literally light up underneath the afternoon sun. As the daze passed, Petunia felt the familiar sting of envy bubbling underneath her skin.

_He gets to be a wizard, and gets to marry the most disgustingly beautiful person I've ever seen, _she thought, sneering lightly down at the girl. She would endure, however. For the sake of curiosity.

"You must be Ginerva," she replied with a slight smirk, accepting the girl's soft handshake. Apparently the magic world didn't raise it's children with any sense of decorum however, seeing as as soon as Petunia had finished speaking, the other girl burst into a series of surprisingly unattractive laughs.

"Eet iz _Ginevra_, not Ginerva - well actually, Ginny. Mais, I am not her. You must not know much about 'Arry," she said haughtily, giggling out the last part as if it was some hilarious joke.

This girl, _Fleur_, proceeded to lead her on an apparently never ending trek through the thick underbrush and swamp-like grasses. The girl had not stopped talking since they had left the car. Though she was largely ignoring the girl's melodic voice and solely concentrating on not ripping her dress on a stray branch, she did pick up a few more useful pieces of information amongst the girl's lengthy ramblings. Though their usefulness was quite questionable seeing as the girl seemed to ramble on about things without ever stopping to explain what in the _bloody_ hell she was talking about. Petunia sussed out that she was the only 'muggle' (_Stupid word_) attending, that _Ginny_ was the youngest of nine children (...or was it seven? Either way, it was way too many), and that one of said siblings had married this _lovely_ girl in front of her.

And all she heard for the next ten minutes were stories about baby name possibilities, and how 'Beel' didn't understand why_Amelie_ would be so much better than _Emily _(Because_, "French is alwayz better!"_).

_My lord, I cannot stand this girl, _Petunia thought as they made their way out of the dense trees. Perhaps because she was too pretty - there was no sense of moderation. Petunia loved chocolate, but she didn't want to eat a stone of the sweet. Just the same, Petunia appreciated beauty, but this was too much.

And the petite woman didn't seem to have an off switch.

The forest that they were walking through abruptly opened up onto an empty, valley-like clearing; complete with it's own swampy, yet quaint, pond. Fleur had stopped sharply at the edge of the clearing to turn back towards her.

"You are at ze Burrow," she stated simply, then spun on her heel and waddled gracefully further out into the clearing.

This girl really had no manners. Not to mention that awful trait of not explaining _anything_.  
_  
_Her brow wrinkled in confusion - obviously she was missing something. The name may suggest it, but did this family really live underground?

_This is 'The Burrow'?_

And as soon as that thought entered her mind, her mind was thrust back to that crowded London street - the flicker of a building that was there one second, and gone the next.

Only this one was not just a flash, but a solid and permanent structure.

Well, permanent might be a stretch. It did seem to be leaning a little too far to the left. Not to mention it looked more like five houses stacked on top of one another, rather than a single home.

She cautiously walked forward.

The leaning house, if you could really call it such, was less than a half a kilometer away - the front garden was surrounded by a brown picket fence, and dotted with strategically placed evergreen bushes that twinkled noticeably with fairy lights. Walking slowly on the handmade dirt pathway leading to the doorway, she noticed that not only were the fairy lights _flying _around the bushes, but an ugly little creature the size of a garden gnome was surreptitiously swatting at the lights, and then diving back behind the bushes every few seconds.

Not to mention, for such a peaceful looking environment, it was inordinately loud. Standing a few meters from the door, Petunia could hear the dulcet cackle of Fleur's laugh, a large amount of what must have been dishes clanging about, some God-awful screeching music coming from an open window above her, pounding footsteps, booming voices, what sounded like fireworks, a dog barking, a childs protesting voice yelling 'NO!' every few seconds, and _My Lord, there is so much noise.  
_  
In continuing with her new tradition of be startled by everyone and everything from the magical world, the door in front of her swung open suddenly causing her to let out an embarrassing gasp of fright.

"I didn't mean to startle you, dear, but I was getting concerned," the warm voice of the woman in front of her said. "Fleur can be a bit single minded, and it wouldn't be the first time in the past nine months she's favored food over someone's safety."

Petunia stood still.

"Oh, where are my manners - please, come in," she said, ushering Petunia inside the crowded livingroom.

"Molly, zis cake iz délicieux!" Fleur's muffled voice called from what must have been the kitchen. Molly's face went from cheery to ashen in about two seconds.

"Fleur, NO!" she yelled, rushing through the front room towards the kitchen. "Please tell me that you did NOT just bite into Ginny and Harry's WEDDING CAKE!"

Petunia desperately wished Molly had taken her along.

Instead she was left in their front room. Uncomfortable was an understatement. Everything was...worn. Not that she looked down on second hand furnishings (though she did), but nothing looked particularly well organized. Much like the exterior of the house, the living room also looked as if five different living rooms were downsized to one. The room was filled to the brim. There were two mismatched, squishy couches, many stray footstools with frayed fabrics, a quite hideous mustard yellow arm chair covered by a quilt made from what looked like old football jerseys, a scorched fireplace, and an uneven coffee table. Next to the armchair were multiple baskets, all filled with what looked like old rubbish. From where she stood, she could make out a snorkel mask, a curling iron, a large pile of CD's, a pair of oven mitts, and a poster from the 'Titanic' movie.

Letting her eyes wander across the walls, she could hardly believe what she was seeing. A few dozen framed pictures displayed in a odd fashion - and the people in the pictures were _moving_.

Stepping closer, her heart was given a further shock when she noticed that in almost all of the pictures was a very familiar, bespectacled face.

_You must not know much about 'Arry.  
_  
The french girl's words came rushing back to her now; as this day went on, she was beginning to realize how true that statement was.

There was a picture of a much younger Molly Weasley, and a red haired man (_must be Arthur Weasley_) smiling brightly into the camera. There were a few pictures of the entire Weasley brood - one that seemed to be in Egypt; one with only Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and two young toddlers.

The last picture interested Petunia the most.

It was quite clearly at Christmastime, the setting of the photo being in this very room, the only difference being a large Christmas tree in the corner, and an even larger number of people. Every person in the photo, all wearing what seemed to be the same knit sweater in different colors, was completely oblivious that they were being photographed.

Petunia could pick out Mrs. Weasley fiddling with a cookie display on the coffee table; Mr. Weasley, wearing a yellow version of the sweater, was sitting in the ugly yellow arm chair with a rotary phone on his lap, spinning the dial with a gleeful look on his face; another red head (who from this angle, Petunia could see that he was missing an ear. _My Lord._) and _another_ red head were having a heated disscussion on one of the couches, and every twenty seconds or so the boy with no ear would turn the other boy's nose into a different piece of fruit; next to them was an annoyed brown haired girl sitting on another Weasley's lap, turning to glare at the earless one each time the other man's nose turned to a fruit - though the boy who's lap she was sitting on seemed to find this hilarious.

On the other couch was an older woman playing peek-a-boo with a baby boy (who's hair would change color each time the woman revealed her face); yet another redhead - this one wearing glasses, was reading a newspaper; and a non-pregnant Fleur, being swallowed by her light blue version of the sweater, was sitting cross legged sipping a cup of tea. Behind her, leaning over intermittently to whisper in her ear, was a more mature looking Weasley child - this one unmistakeable due to the harsh scars covering his face. Though Petunia herself was openly gaping at the man's wounds, the Fleur in the picture didn't seem to notice - instead giggling lightly and reaching her free hand up behind her to run her fingers through the man's hair.

And then there was Harry. Wearing a dark blue version of 'The Sweater' with a gold-winged ball in the center, he was comparatively inactive to the rest of the rambunctious group. He was sitting comfortably in a simple cushioned chair, looking fondly at the around the room. His gaze would often wander to the red headed girl on the floor in front of him, who seemed to be enthusiastically worshiping a _broom_ of all things - and Petunia knew that this must be Ginerva. Sorry, Ginevra. _Ginny_.

As she torn her gaze away from the picture to survey the room once again, she was left with a distinctly different impression of it than she'd gotten at first.

Everything in the room was still worn, messy, and completely disorganized - but it was just a room.

And the decoration (or lack there of), from the homely arm chair to the teetering coffee table, didn't really matter.

This was a _home_.

Petunia's own house was beautiful. Every item of furniture, every rug - everything down to the salt and pepper shakers - was chosen to impress people. To let guests know that they were in a big house with nice things, visiting people who could afford an antique drink cart and Elizabethan side tables. Her house was beautiful.

But it _wasn't_ a home.

She knew it was a sign of personal growth that her throat tightened at that thought, but she really wished it would stop.

She did not want to have to explain to Mrs. Weasley why her ugly furniture had caused her to start crying.  
**  
**


	3. Part 3

A/N: First off, THANK YOU for all the lovely reviews! You guys have no idea how lamely excited I get when I get a review. Second, I'm sorry for being so lazy and not updating for so long - I will try really, REALLY hard to update way more often. Third, even though I got through everything I wanted to in this chapter, in the process of writing it, I kind of added some stuff one - which basically means this is going to be longer than I expected. Anyhoo, on to the story. Enjoy, and please leave me your thoughts!

* * *

"Boo!"

This was really starting to become embarrassing.

After letting out a sharp shriek on instinct, Petunia turned quickly to see the little boy from the picture (now with bubblegum pink hair - _very_ strange) giggling in his success. For a small child, he was quite an eyesore. Between the pink hair, the bright orange shirt, black dress shoes, and no pants, Petunia had never seen such an...interesting child before.

Her old self would have said ugly. But she was a better person now, so interesting it was.

Still, she certainly would have never let her child go running around looking like a cartoon character. Dudley had always been dressed in the finest clothes money could buy. Even Harry, who she could now admit had been dressed quite hideously as a child, had always worn more muted colors. Appearances were important, and no matter how much she changed on the inside, she would never change so much as to think that the outside wasn't just as important.

People can't see your thoughts, but they can see your clothes.

Or lack thereof in this child's case.

"I SCARED YOU!" the small boy shouted in glee, jumping up and down as Petunia stood stock still, staring at him as though he was from another planet.

Honestly, it wouldn't surprise her.

This entire day was completely bizarre, and the multi-colored toddler was only adding to the absurdity. The fact that she felt like a frightened gazelle being pursued by a lion was just icing on the cake.

And it really was getting to be embarrassing.

She had been startled by a pregnant woman, then by Mrs. Weasley, and now by a little child. She was being completely ridiculous, and yet as she watched the boy's hair change color as he ran circles around her frozen form, she couldn't help but think that this child _was_ frightening. She wasn't completely helpless, but she didn't know what these people were capable of. As far as she remembered from when Harry was a child, magic was random and dangerous.

For all she knew, this harmless (though _interesting_) looking child could make a snake attack her, or blow her up like a balloon.

"TEDDY!" a booming female voice shouted from the upper recesses of the house. Whoever the voice belonged to, it quickly wiped the smile off of the boy's face, and without so much as a wave, the pant-less child took off up the stairs.

Though still in a mild state of paranoia, Petunia found herself surprisingly glad when Fleur reentered the living room. Even though being around these people was turning her into some kind of twitchy lunatic, staying alone in this Twilight Zone of a house wasn't doing her any favors either.

"Molly 'as kicked me out of ze kitchen," Fleur stated, standing somewhat awkwardly due to her bulging stomach. "I'm sure she 'as only forgotten about you for ze moment."

That glad feeling was quickly fading away.

Petunia smiled tightly at the young woman, now hoping that the girl would take her strange, blunt chitchat somewhere else. It was just her luck that in a house filled to the brim with people, she kept getting stuck with the weird _French_ one. She wasn't really keen on meeting anymore magicians at the moment, so if she wanted to keep some semblance of sanity, it looked like she was stuck with Fleur.

She really did need a minute to breathe though.

Just as Fleur looked to be launching into another long winded story about butter or something, Petunia cut her off with a simple, "I'd like to freshen up before the other guests arrive."

"Oh, mais oui!" and with a small smile, Fleur acquiesced and guided her slowly up the rickety stairwell. Fleur's voice rambled on yet again, but Petunia was really not paying any attention. Thankfully the bathroom appeared to be only one flight up, and she was spared from having to comment on Fleur's _fascinating_ anecdote about her trip to a _butter beer_ (which sounded genuinely disgusting) factory.

The second floor landing was a fairly small area with three walls, each with only enough room for their corresponding doors. Fleur led her to the one in the middle, and proceeded to throw her side against it while turning the handle. Petunia watched in shock at the comical scene taking place before her. After a few more pushes, the stubborn door gave way to a cramped bathroom, complete with it's own tiny window that was partially obscured by the top of a tree. Fleur moved out of the doorway, letting Petunia pass into the small room.

"Do you know 'ow to use ze toilet?" Fleur asked, reinforcing Petunia's previous thought that the entire magical community really had no manners. And that they apparently think normal people are about as smart as monkeys.

"I'm not a barbarian!" Petunia asserted, and shut the door firmly. After hearing Fleur's footsteps fade away, she took a calming breathe and turned towards the small mirror above the sink.

She looked tired.

Her previously crisp hat had visible signs of distress; the brim bent too far to the right, and the hat itself pushed too far back on her head.

Her lipstick had gone too long unattended.

Her hair, previously pinned neatly in a bun beneath her hat, now looked as if she had just rolled out of bed.

She really didn't want to start crying on top of it all.

Staring into her own eyes, she could feel her pulse racing and her throat tightening. The thin lines around her lids seemed deeper in her anxiety. She was so very unprepared.

She had barely given a thought to the wedding since the invitation arrived. Sure, she made a plan to come here, and corresponded once with Mrs. Weasley to do so, but she hadn't asked any questions. Not one question that didn't have to do with how to get from Little Whinging to Ottery St. Catchpole.

She knew nothing, and was only now realizing that she had set herself up for panic. Set herself up for failure.

Not only was she being thrust into this world where pictures moved and entire buildings could be invisible, but she was being thrust into a world where _Harry_ was in said pictures and occupied said buildings. If she had maybe given it more thought, she wouldn't have been so blindsided. She would have at least known _something_.

But she hadn't thought, and now her hands were shaking as she re-pinned her hair.

Somehow, even with all of the growth she'd gone through, she still hadn't really thought of Harry in the present tense. It was always 'Harry had been', and now she was in a world where it was 'Harry is'. When she had broken down that day in his cupboard, she was reacting to how she used to treat him - when he was ten. Now it's a decade later, and there's a present and future to deal with.

And here she is, in some strange magical family's bathroom trying to stop herself from having a panic attack because of_Harry_. How times have changed.

She was really not used to caring about Harry.

And if nothing else, she wishes now that she would have at least asked Mrs. Weasley what Harry thought of her coming today.

_He wouldn't have invited you if he wasn't okay with it_, she reassured herself.

Taking deep breaths as she reached into her purse for her lipstick, she pushed her nerves aside for the moment in favor making sure she at least looked her best, even if she didn't feel it. After reapplying her lipstick and fixing her hat, Petunia reached down to the sink to wash the remnants of forest off of her manicured hands.

The sink had no handles.

There was a faucet, and a drain.

No handles.

Confusion clear upon her face, she spun around to examine the toilet and found the same situation. A toilet with a drain, but no flush lever.

"Wha..." she exhaled, once again completely stumped by the queerness of the magical world.

And in the shower the same strange phenomenon.

"Bloody hell," she muttered to herself, sighing in frustration as she wiped her hands on a few squares of toilet paper before throwing them in the rubbish bin. Giving herself one more look over in the mirror, she turned towards the door and had to give three sharp tugs and a shake before the door swung open. Once out on the small landing, she immediately noticed the previously closed door to her left was now wide open, sunlight spilling from the room into the dim hallway.

_Just one look._

Unable to help herself (for she hadn't changed _that_ much), Petunia tiptoed forward to peek in the room. The first thing she noticed, that anyone would notice really, was that the room was a disaster.

Not like the organized chaos of the family room. An actual disaster of tornado-like proportions. Or a bomb. Or something that would accurately describe mayhem inflicted upon the tiny space.

The room itself was quite small, though with a nice sized window looking out onto the sunny yard. By the decoration of the room, with it's light yellow paint and fading posters on the walls, it quite obviously used to be a girl's bedroom. Now however, the single bed was covered in silver and white ribbons, the desk by the window piled high with RSVP's and wedding magazines (though unlike normal magazines, these covers flitted from picture to picture), piles of fabric covered the floor, along with an abnormally large trunk that was spilling over with mismatched plates and teacups. The vanity was piled high is all sorts of weird pink and purple bottles that Petunia figured must be the magical versions of make-up. On the wall next to the closet was a huge calendar covered in Mrs. Weasley's distinct handwriting, with what appeared to be edits made by Ginny.

_Madam Malkin's: HG (31-25-33) and FD-W (34-40-34) in 'Ballet Slipper'_  
_No PINK mum!  
_  
Petunia despised messes. She had always been a clean freak, and that was never going to change.

But for just this one moment, standing alone, looking at the Weasley version of wedding planning, Petunia wished that she was messy. Or more accurately, that she had someone in her life that she was willing to be messy for. Even if Dudley ever got married, it would be his fiancé's family who would be paying, and therefore planning. She thinks that it's quite possible she would have been a very different person had Dudley been born a girl.

Shaking herself out of her musing, she stepped back out of the cluttered room and proceeded down the stairs, all the while reminding herself how desperately this family needed to organize their house. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she once again felt very out of place in the homey living room. This entire house was making her uncomfortable - mostly due to the fact that she was trying _not_ to feel comfortable.

She was sure that feeling comfortable in this house would somehow be even more uncomfortable than she felt now.

"No! You're only making it worse!" Petunia heard Mrs. Weasley say, her voice carrying easily to the living room. Following the sound through a short hallway packed full with a bookcase and a very strange looking clock, she came upon the partially open doorway to the Weasley's surprisingly large kitchen. Leaning silently against the doorframe out of view, Petunia took a moment to watch as Mrs. Weasley was attempting to stop a young, red-haired woman from eating more of the already ruined wedding cake.

A young, red-haired woman wearing a long, white dress.

"No, I'm not! I'm making it even!" said Ginny as she continued to eat around the outside of the cake.

"Stop taking bites!" Mrs. Weasley said, snatching the fork out of the girl's hand. Though her back was turned towards Petunia, Ginny's displeasure was easy to read by her indignant "Hey!", and her attempt to steal the fork back.

"It's bad luck to eat the cake before the wedding!" Mrs. Weasley stated, turning to throw the fork into the wash bin, and pick up what must have been her wand.

"Oh, please," Ginny responded, the roll of her eyes obvious in her voice, hand cocked on her hip. "According to you, just about everything is bad luck before the wedding. You wouldn't even let me go to the beach with Hermione because you said it was bad luck to wear a swimming costume in public before the wedding!"

"Well, it is!" she said, and started to flip through a cookbook. "And at this point, you'll need as much luck as you can get."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ginny said as she stuck a stray yellow flower into one of the holes in the cake.

"Do you really think I didn't hear you sneak in this morning? You've already broken the 'Don't see the groom before the wedding' rule," Mrs. Weasley said, finding the correct page in her book and pulling out a few jars from a cupboard above the sink. "And as we both remember, I know you've already broken the 'Don't have premarital sex befo-"

"Mum!" Ginny interrupted frantically, "I'm fairly certain that we agreed to never mention that horrible day _ever_ again!"

"Well, that's not exactly what happened," Mrs. Weasley said (quite obviously about to tell her exactly what happened).

"I cannot believe that I actually thought I never would have to relive that day..." Ginny muttered as she pulled out one of the heavy wooden chairs that surrounded the large kitchen table, and plopped down in defeat.

Now removing Ginny's poor excuse for a cake disguise, and dusting the eaten spots with a bluish powder, Mrs. Weasley continued without regard to her daughters comment. "If I remember correctly, I apparated to Harry's to surprise him with a birthday breakfast in bed, and instead came upon -"

"_Please_, do not expand upon that. I _was_ there too, Mum," Ginny interrupted.

"Well, anyhow - I of course had to wait for you two to get dressed..." Mrs. Weasley pressed on.

"Oh, God," Ginny mumbled, her head falling forward onto the table.

"...and when you came out, you immediately blurt out that you were engaged, _knowing_ that I wasn't going to be able to stay mad."

"Well, it was really the only defense that I had," Ginny said lightly.

"I may not have said anything until now, but that doesn't mean that I agree with your choice," Mrs. Weasley continued as she waved her wand over the cake; the blue powder multiplying and filling in the crevices caused by the preemptive cake eating. "And I can assure you the _only_ reason I didn't say anything until now was because for more than a month, everytime Harry saw me he'd turn as red as a tomato. Poor boy."

"Poor boy? So you're mad at me, but Harry blushes a little and gets let off the hook?" Ginny said, exasperated enough to lift her head from the kitchen table.

"Don't pretend that it wasn't your idea," Mrs. Weasley matter of factly stated as she molded the powder-turned-foam into the correct shape, the color starting to blend with the rest of the cake.

"Well, fine..." Ginny giggle lightly, becoming a full laugh after a few seconds. "He did look remarkably like a lobster."

Mrs. Weasley's face curled into a smile, a joyful laugh bubbling through her lips as she looked from the nearly complete cake to her smiling daughter. Petunia felt embarrassed at overhearing an obviously private conversation, but the look on Mrs. Weasley's face increased that embarrassment tenfold. She felt embarrassed for herself - because she could honestly say that she's never been as happy for someone else as Mrs. Weasley so obviously was for her daughter. Lost in her disconcertion, she didn't notice Mrs. Weasley's eyes flicker up from Ginny to her.

"Mrs. Dursley," Mrs. Weasley said nervously, her eyes moving back and forth between her daughter and the woman in the doorway.

At first, Petunia was confused as to why Mrs. Weasley's demeanor had changed so greatly from when she greeted her earlier. Her curiosity quickly faded when she noticed that the younger Weasley's smile had diminished, and been replace by a steely gaze directed right at her.

"_What_ is she doing here?" Ginny said, her accusing eyes never wavering from Petunia's face, the joy completely drained from her voice.

"Ginny, dear, calm down," Mrs. Weasley said. "I told you I was sending an invitation to the Dursley's."

"Yes, _a__s a courtesy_," Ginny said, her gaze turning towards her mother as she stood up from her chair. "You also failed to mention the fact that they actually responded. Does Harry even know about this?"

Petunia felt ill at ease. She hadn't even considered the possibility that Harry wouldn't even know she was coming - though maybe she should have. Now that she took a second to think about it, it made perfect sense. Why would Harry ever speak to her again, let alone invite her to his wedding.

"No," Mrs. Weasley said softly, quickly continuing before Ginny could interrupt. "Honestly, I didn't tell either of you because I wasn't even sure she was going to turn up, and there was no point in getting you all worked up about it for no reason."

"So you thought it was a better idea that we get a happy surprise if she did show up?" Ginny yelled, her back turned on Petunia."She almost ruined his life!"

"But she didn't, Ginny," Mrs. Weasley stated, sending Petunia a small smile before turning back towards her daughter and bringing her hands to rest on either side of Ginny's face. "Harry's happy now. And he's getting married today, if you didn't remember - and I think it would be nice if he had at least a little part of his mother at his wedding."

Petunia looked down, staring with irregular intensity at the patterns in the worn wooden floor.

So many things she hadn't thought of.

Lily.

So many things.

"I'm going to go find Fleur," Ginny's watery voice said as she turned away from her mother, and walked toward Petunia and stopped in front of her.

Having only seen the girl from behind, Petunia was surprised at how pretty she was. Her warm brown eyes were on the verge of tears, but seemed to have no effect on her fiery beauty. If it weren't for her paralyzing fear that she was about to be turned into a pumpkin, Petunia might have actually complimented the girl. Ginny's eyes fluttered closed for a second, seemingly needing the moment of darkness to compose herself, and when they reopened her tears were gone, as was the waver in her voice.

"You abused him," she said, the words cracking some invisible wall in Petunia's previously sturdy heart. She would not cry. "You barely fed him, you called him horrible names, you punished him for no reason. He was just a child," Ginny continued, her previous resolve crumbling under the weight of the words, and despite her previous promise, Petunia's own breathe was shaking.

"You were his only family, and all you did was hurt him," Ginny said as she hastily wiped the tears off her cheeks, her voice now gaining momentum and becoming stronger with every word. "But you're not all he has anymore. He has me. He has a real family, and friends, and an entire _world_ of people willing to die for him - and I can tell you with complete certainty that if you even so much as blink wrong towards him, the entire wizarding world would be more than happy to eradicate you from history."

Petunia was fairly certain that she wasn't breathing as the girl brushed passed her into the hallway. Through her watery vision she could see Mrs. Weasley slowly walking towards her.

"Come, sit," she said as she steered Petunia into Ginny's abandoned chair. "I'll make you some tea."

Mrs. Weasley continued to bustle around the kitchen as Petunia stared off into space.

She had not been prepared.

She didn't know anything anymore.

But maybe that was the first step; admitting you have a problem.

_I don't know anything.  
_  
Then the tea kettle whistled.**  
**


	4. Part 4

**A/N: **_It's been a...long time since I've updated. So, sooo sorry. I really suck at updating quickly, but I'm working on it :) Anyways, enjoy the chapter and don't forget to **review**!_

* * *

She had never really thought of life as a series of actions and consequences.

When she was younger, her parents had doted upon Lily and couldn't be bothered to so much as blink if Petunia disobeyed rules. She certainly wasn't a problem child, but she made it difficult enough. She had seen life as a series of actions and reactions.

But never consequences.

At least until now.

Now she was living in the consequence of abandoning her sister's son. She may have allowed Harry to live in her house and eat her food, but she never once raised him. She abandoned him – or she might as well have.

She was still shaking from the young Weasley girl's harsh words. Harsh, but true.

Though the kitchen of the house seemed to be the hotbed for activity normally, for the time that Petunia sat sipping her tea, not one person besides Mrs. Weasley passed through. She could hear people arriving (though how, she wasn't sure) in the living room, thumping footsteps above her head, and boisterous activity drifting from outside through the open top of the dutch door.

Her tea was cold.

Every once in a while she would hear footsteps headed through the narrow hallway towards her, and Mrs. Weasley would smile politely at her before rushing to cut the person off at the pass. Hushed voices and a minute later, she would return looking slightly more nervous and with a few more hairs out of place.

After the third time, Petunia shook herself out of her comatose state. Mrs. Weasley may have good intentions, but the woman was making her feel like a leper.

"It's really not necessary, you know," she said, interrupting their previously agreed upon silence. Mrs. Weasley sent her a slightly confused look, and she elaborated, "Keeping them all away from me – it's not necessary."

Mrs. Weasley sent her a small smile and returned to her task of folding napkins.

"Dear, I'm not keeping them away for your sake," and now it was Petunia's turn to be confused. "I'm keeping them away for their own. You don't exactly have any fans here, and I myself have a few choice words about your treatment of Harry, but I do know for a fact that Harry wouldn't want anyone turning you into a toad on his wedding day," she said, ending with a small laugh.

"Can you really do that?" Petunia asked.

"Do what?" Mrs. Weasley responded, "Turn you into a toad? Yes."

Lovely.

"Of course, George is a bit more creative than that," she said, giggling a bit. Petunia really didn't know why the woman insisted upon smiling however. Being turned into an _animal_ was no laughing matter. Really, none of this was a laughing matter.

"How is it that you can be so cavalier with me? You say everyone here feels the desire to turn me into a toad...or what have you, and yet you're standing here talking to me as if I'm your friend," Petunia said, rushing out her words in a deep, relief-filled exhale.

The other woman turned her kind eyes on Petunia, picked up the remaining unfolded napkins, and sat across from her. She cleared the space between them before separating the pile in two and handing one half to Petunia.

"We're folding them into lilies" she said, placing the square napkin in front of her and urging Petunia to do the same. "Pull one corner across into a triangle, take the two bottom corners and fold them up to the third tip – good."

Petunia didn't really understand why Mrs. Weasley was teaching her how to fold napkins rather than answering her question, but felt it best to stay silent. If this experience was teaching her nothing else, it was that sometimes not speaking at all is the more conductive option.

So instead, she folded her napkin.

Letting go of control was not inherently built into her DNA. She was used to being in the drivers seat. Only now being able to open her eyes enough to realize that she was driving herself off a cliff. So instead, she folded her napkin.

"Now fold the bottom up halfway, and flip the napkin over," she continued to instruct, " fold the right corner over, and tuck the left corner in the pocket. There you go."

Petunia finished her napkin, and followed Mrs. Weasley's lead by standing the napkin up. Folded the flaps down.

"See," Mrs. Weasley said, "A lily."

And it was.

They both grabbed the next unfolded napkin in the pile.

"I was angry with you for quite some time," Mrs. Weasley said, causing a slight pause in Petunia's folding. "Particularly when Harry was younger. I doubt you've ever heard the story of when I first met Harry?" she continued, adding the question in her voice purely to give Petunia the benefit of the doubt.

Left corner up, right corner up, bottom half-way, flip, shake head in the negative. Of course she hadn't. It stung a little more than expected.

"It was at King's Cross, Harry and Ron's first year at Hogwarts. Lots of hustle and bustle on the platform at that time of day, and I was trying to keep track of all the children – as you well know, having boys means keeping a watchful eye." Petunia nodded in agreement, though she couldn't really relate. Sure, Dudley had been a bit of a brat (yes, she loved him; and yes, she said he was an angel. She was a liar, not stupid), but he'd always been fairly easy to catch – he wasn't the fastest runner.

"And this tiny, messy haired boy walks up and stumbles over his words to ask for help to get on the platform. I was so surprised at how small he was – food has always been a main event in our household, and that makes for fast growing children. But this boy, he was tiny. Small to begin with, but appeared even more-so in overly large clothes. My first thought being his size, my second being how unusually quiet he was. I think you can tell just from being here this short amount of time that quiet is pretty much a foreign concept. Raising a house full of six boys was certainly hard on the eardrums, and unfortunately my thought that it would be a bit quieter with a girl in the mix couldn't have been more wrong.

"I'm getting off track, but my point is – all I could think was that someone had allowed him to be this small and timid. And over the years as I got to know Harry better, all I could think was '_Why?_'" she concluded. In the midst of her speech, Petunia had kept her eyes firmly on the task in front of her, but felt compelled to meet Mrs. Weasley's question face on.

She saw consequences.

"_Why_ would someone allow him to waste away? _Why_ would anyone not care for him?"

"I-" Petunia tried to speak, but any words were stuck in her throat. Not just in her throat, but her mind. She had not answer except for the one she didn't want to admit to. She was improving, but still couldn't get the words out.

Mrs. Weasley's face was pulled into an exasperated shape, but softened with a small frown-like smile. "And then I realized that it didn't matter."

Somewhere along the way they had finished folding the remaining napkins.

Lilies.

"Because Harry turned into a wonderful man. He is brave, and strong, and kind – and though his remaining biological link may have...disappointed, he is not without family. He's been a part of my family ever since my sons broke him out of his barred bedroom and brought him home. Today is only making it official."

Her eye's had filled with tears by now, and she was trying desperately to not let them fall.

"So how can I sit here and treat you civilly?"

Tears still contained.

"Because I can't change the past, but I can make a better future, and a better future can't happen if I hold onto anger and hatred. It just – it doesn't _matter_ anymore."

She tried to not cry. Clearly, it wasn't working.

She wiped her eyes as discreetly as possible.

"I- I don't know what to say," she replied, and in that moment it was the most truthful thing she could have said.

Mrs. Weasley smiled and gathered up the finished napkins. "No need, dear. Now, I've talked it over with Ginny, and we've agreed that we should wait until after the ceremony for you to see Harry...or rather, Ginny decided – but, no matter.

"So, come now. You can help me set the tables, and then we'll find you a nice seat for the ceremony, yes?" she ordered kindly, ushering a still inert Petunia out of her seat and out into the warm afternoon sun.

Now she was living in the consequence of her actions.

Ginny had said it forcefully, enough so to shock trembles out of Petunia's body. But it hadn't really sunk in until now.

Mrs. Weasley was a kind woman, but Petunia could tell she was fierce as well. No woman couldn't be with that many children – Petunia hadn't acquired that quality because Dudley had never had any real problems, but with...however many children Mrs. Weasley had, it was statistically impossible to not have some defending to do.

Petunia could also tell that she considered Harry to be one of her own, and therefore would most certainly would be a little more than unkind to anyone who dare hurt him.

Yet here she was, saying Petunia was safe from that. Not because she was innocent, not because Mrs. Weasley felt she deserved a free pass – no, because she wasn't worth the effort. She wasn't important.

To Harry, she was a distant specter from his past that held no power in the present.

Mrs. Weasley really had explained it in the least jarring way possible, but Petunia still felt as if she'd just been run over by a lorry.

She wasn't worth the effort of getting angry.

She didn't matter anymore.

She was still unclear as to why this caused her stomach to clench; why this caused her throat to clench.

Why.**_  
_**


End file.
